Dead Man (Carry Me)
by roktavor
Summary: Because no matter how much he wants comfort, his mind helpfully reminds him that he doesn't deserve it.


**A/N:** I've been really struggling with my writing these past few months, so this is actually from the tail-end of last year. Written for the 'self-loathing' square of my Bad Things Happen Bingo card (ofc I had to pick Abbacchio...) I finally got around to editing it and here we are-

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**Dead Man (Carry Me)**

There's a knock on the bathroom door, and Abbacchio jolts back to something close to awareness.

Water – as hot as he can stand it and then some – is still streaming down from the showerhead above, leaving steam thick in the air and thoroughly drenching him. It's a comfortable sort of sanctuary that he's sitting in…even if he can't remember how long he's been hiding here. Not that it _matters_, exactly, but –

Another knock startles him, pulling his attention toward the door. Oh, right. There's someone out there.

…Who would be here, though? He's about as far from expecting company as he's ever been.

"Abbacchio."

_Oh_.

That voice is familiar, and Abbacchio's stomach goes cold against the heat of the shower, his chest coiling tight. _Please_ not him, anyone but him – he doesn't deserve to see Abbacchio like _this_ –

"Abbacchio, it's me."

Of _course_ it's him. Does he think Abbacchio can't tell? He'd know Bruno Buccellati's voice anywhere, even muffled by wood and shower spray.

Shit.

Abbacchio's throat is tightening, getting sore all over again. There's no way he can answer like this, his voice choked by the threat of returning tears. Over _nothing_. Nothing but his own fucked emotions, at least. They aren't making this easy to handle.

But if he doesn't respond, then Buccellati might –

"Can I come in?"

_That_.

Now Abbacchio _really_ has to pull himself together and say something.

If he _doesn't_, then Buccellati will more than likely decide to come in on his own. To check on him. And Abbacchio isn't sure if he _wants_ that – he thinks that he does, in which case it would be great to come out and _say_ so.

At the same time, though…he's just as eager to deny Buccellati entrance. Because no matter how much he _wants_ comfort, his mind helpfully reminds him that he doesn't deserve it.

Never mind that Buccellati seeing him like this would be mortifying – Abbacchio is supposed to be getting _better_. He's not supposed to spend this much time wallowing. Not anymore.

Then again, by now Buccellati is bound to be able to tell that Abbacchio isn't up to par today, so how bad could it be? To just…let him in?

Ugh – but he can't _burden_ Buccellati with this, either. It's not fair to keep doing that.

Abbacchio can handle this himself.

…His head hurts, brain over-occupied with running itself in miserable circles. He lets it fall against the wall of the shower, wishing his thoughts would shut up for even a second.

"Do what you want," he says eventually. His voice wavers, unstuck but not ready to be used yet.

It's a shitty answer. He _knows_ that Buccellati will take it as permission, and he _knows_ that it's a selfish cop-out for that very reason.

Too late to take it back now, though. He can already hear the bathroom door unzipping and re-zipping as Buccellati lets himself in.

Through the fogged glass of the shower, Abbacchio watches that blurry form become more solid with proximity. Dread and relief are fighting in Abbacchio's gut, his chest still sorely tight, his head pounding – and suddenly the water isn't hot enough. God he feels like _shit_, what was he thinking, giving Buccellati free reign to –

The shower stall door opens to reveal a crystal clear (well, except for the mild blur of tears and steam) Buccellati. Cold air rushes in from behind him, and Abbacchio shivers, curling his knees closer to his chest.

Yeah. The water has definitely edged towards warm. It's not even close to being enough to keep the chill away.

Buccellati reaches inside to turn the shower off, which only makes things worse. Abbacchio can't meet his eyes – can't even drag his gaze above Buccellati's knees. His stomach is rolling, body trembling from the lack of comforting all-encompassing heat.

"Abbacchio," this time, Buccellati's voice is soft as he says the name. His knees bend into a crouch, and Abbacchio's eyes wind up stuck to his chest, trying to focus on the pattern of the tattoo there. "Are you all right?"

That's a stupid question. Does Abbacchio _look_ alright? He knows he doesn't. Sopping wet and naked, cowering in the shower where he's been all morning, with last night's makeup smeared on his face, his hair tangled. Any attempt at actually cleaning himself long abandoned.

"You missed our morning meeting."

_Dammit_.

The cold has met with that of Abbacchio's insides, quivering around in the pit of his stomach. _Guilt_. That's what it is, this time. He recognizes it.

Opening his mouth to apologize or make excuses doesn't work, and he only ends up clenching it shut again and bowing his head. Forget avoiding eye contact – looking at any part of Buccellati is too much.

"Abbacchio."

God, can't Buccellati stop saying his name? It's got Abbacchio's eyes stinging hot, and it's unnecessary. He knows he's the one Buccellati is talking to; the one he's so disappointed in. Bad enough is that he can _feel_ Buccellati's eyes on him, burning into his frozen skin.

"How long have you been in here?"

Already having established with himself that he has _no fucking clue_, Abbacchio only shrugs his trembling shoulders. It's no use puzzling it out. His head hurts too bad, and it doesn't make much difference anyway.

Buccellati takes a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. That sigh can't mean anything good.

"Okay," that steadfast voice says at length, "let's get you out."

Oh. No – _no_, absolutely not. That isn't happening.

Abbacchio's body stops shaking to go stiff, feet pressing hard to the slick shower floor to shove his back against the wall. No way is he going to burden Buccellati with the task of manhandling him out of here, _especially_ not after he missed their meeting and caused him this much inconvenience already.

He grunts when those hands meet his shoulders, squeezing with clear comforting intent before sliding down to grip gentle at his biceps.

"Don't," he manages to say, head tipping farther forward.

"Abbacch –"

Shaking his head might make the room tilt dramatically, but at least it stops his name from leaving Buccellati's lips again. It takes Abbacchio half a moment to gather himself, and he hates that Buccellati waits with patient hands on him all the while.

"I can do it myself," Abbacchio forces out at last. His spinning vision is now fixed on the dotted pattern of Buccellati's suit. It doesn't help him feel less dizzy, but he needs _something_ to try and focus on.

At first, Buccellati's hands don't move, and neither does the rest of him. Abbacchio worries that he's going to insist on helping, but after a beat those fingers flex against Abbacchio's arms, releasing them.

Buccellati steps backwards out of the shower stall, making it a little bit easier to breathe.

"I'll get you a towel."

That is _also_ worth protesting against, but Abbacchio doesn't have the energy. He's sagged against the wall, blank eyes watching the blurred shape of Buccellati as he flits around the bathroom.

…Oh, yeah, he's supposed to be standing up and getting out of here.

If he doesn't hurry, Buccellati will come back with more undeserved yet insistent helping hands. And Abbacchio can't have that. So he forces shaking legs under himself one foot at a time, prying his crossed arms apart so his hands can steady him against the slippery wall as he undergoes the painstaking process of _standing up_.

It only takes him one try, which is nice. Slipping and falling on his ass under any circumstances would suck, but with his current dismal mood – and Buccellati _watching_ – it would be extra terrible.

The next step is to…get out of the shower. He's loath to do that, actually. It'll be even _colder_ out there. A bit brighter, too. His body is again reluctant to move, but he pushes himself to step out onto the tile floor.

Only. His foot doesn't land on the tile floor. The presence of a memory foam bath mat squishing under his toes catches him off guard – he forgot he even _had_ that. Where the hell did it come from…?

While he's busy staring down at his own feet like an idiot, his arms folded close to his stomach in an attempt to retain some warmth, Buccellati blindsides him. A thick towel drapes around Abbacchio's shoulders, soaking up water droplets from his hair and protecting most of him from the cold. He shivers at the contact, but _also_:

"Why are you…." The words fall heavy off of his tongue, tapering to nothing. Hell, they were barely a mumble to begin with.

Because now Buccellati is to the right of him, a sliver in his peripheral vision as he gathers Abbacchio's hair free of the towel. He's got a smaller towel in his hands that he uses to squeeze excess water out, drying dripping wet hair to a more manageable damp.

All Abbacchio can do is hang his head again. Whatever unpleasant mix of feelings he had from earlier never fully left, and it's only growing in his gut.

Buccellati shouldn't be _doing_ this.

Yet Abbacchio does nothing to stop him. Just stands here and _takes_ it.

Thank fuck Buccellati isn't saying anything while he works – Abbacchio would break if he did. He very nearly does anyway when Buccellati grabs a comb and starts dragging it through messy white locks.

Buccellati is being _too gentle_. Abbacchio doesn't deserve the careful way those tangles are worked free, his hair held in small sections so Buccellati can coax all the knots out without pulling at it.

He doesn't even deserve the fact that Buccellati is _here_ right now, let alone taking care of him like this.

Long before Buccellati finishes straightening the part in Abbacchio's hair, he starts shivering again. Heat stings behind his eyes and his throat hurts. Great. At this rate, he's really going to….

Fingers brush warm at Abbacchio's temple, shifting the hair out of his face, and he jerks away from the touch. Why does Buccellati have to _look_ at him like that? He doesn't want to be scrutinized. Through the pale curtain of his hair he watches that hand hover for a moment before lowering back to Buccellati's side.

"Do you want me to take your makeup off?"

Abbacchio cringes, fingers tightening in the plush towel around his shoulders. He really doesn't want that – but at the same time he really _does_ and _why_ does everything hurt so _badly_ today?

He distantly registers Buccellati stepping away, but he isn't gone for long. His feet reenter Abbacchio's field of vision, one hand reaching to tip his chin up.

"Look here," Buccellati murmurs.

But Abbacchio really, _really_ doesn't want to.

He ends up follows the coaxing of that gentle hand anyway, lifting his face and losing the protection of his hair draped around him in the process. This position is too exposed, but he deals with it by shifting his eyes away, staring at the corner of the room instead of properly facing Buccellati.

It doesn't seem like Buccellati minds, though. Abbacchio feels the wet touch of one of his makeup wipes beneath his eye as Buccellati cleans his face with a careful hand.

He's too _close_. His warmth is too tangible, his touch is too kind.

Abbacchio's mouth quivers dangerously as the remains of his lipstick is cleared away, Buccellati's breath puffing soft over his cheek as he completes his work at last. As soon as those hands are off of him, Abbacchio ducks his head again, hair falling back into place.

He should thank Buccellati, but the words are caught strangled in his throat.

"You should get dressed," Buccellati says. His hands are folded in front of him, thumbs pressed tight over each other.

With an absent nod, Abbacchio drops his gaze to the floor.

Clothes are a good idea. He's mostly dry, by now, but the steam is fast dissipating, leaving the cold to creep in worse than before. It'd be great if his feet would unstick and his muscles would unlock so he could actually make it to his room.

Buccellati touches him again, his hand feather light at Abbacchio's shoulder through the towel.

"I'm –" Abbacchio almost says 'okay' or 'fine' to try and reassure Buccellati – or get _rid_ of him – but he can't get either of those out past twitching lips. "I'll be right out," is what he says instead, aware that it sounds too forced because it _is_.

He's also aware that those words are going to send Buccellati to his room to wait for him. Sure enough, when Buccellati leaves with a gentle, "All right," and fingers ghosting over Abbacchio's shoulder, he heads down the hall to the right, directly toward the bedroom.

Back to being alone in the bathroom, Abbacchio feels wretched.

Simply by existing he's pulled Buccellati away from his work – and he's slacking off from his own duties, too, as if that weren't bad enough. His fingers tighten in the fabric of his towel as he grinds his teeth.

No matter how much it felt like he couldn't function this morning, no matter how bad a headspace he woke up in, he should've _handled it_. Alone.

Grunting, he wrenches the towel off of his shoulders. The chill of the room is on him tenfold, but he ignores it, busy using the towel to give his body a cursory drying, maybe a little more violent than necessary.

_No more thinking_, he tells himself on the way to his room, towel held tight around his waist. The thought doesn't work, of course. His mind just ends up running that phrase on a loop until he gets to the bedroom –

Where he sees Buccellati topping off a stack of clothes with warm socks and just about shatters.

Stuck lingering just outside the doorway, Abbacchio's stomach is churning. Not at the kind gesture, or at Buccellati, but at _himself_ for taking all of this when he isn't worthy of even half of it.

His whole apartment is a mess – sparsely decorated though it is, Abbacchio is awful at upkeep – but this room is the worst. Evidence of his latest drinking binge is scattered around, half-empty bottles and questionable stains alike. Piles of dirty laundry litter the floor. The bed is unmade and filthy.

Yet here's Buccellati among it all, handing off a pristine pile of clean clothes.

Against every thought screaming in his head, Abbacchio shuffles inside, toward Buccellati. His free hand brushes Buccellati's warm fingers as he takes the proffered clothes, and he ducks his head, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he avoids eye contact at all costs. _He can't do this_.

"You get changed." Buccellati's voice is infuriatingly level, not at all betraying the disgust he _has_ to be feeling. "I'll clean up a little."

Abbacchio wants to scream at him. He wants to throw him out and tell him never to come back. To shove him away and force distance while he still can. To do _something_ to prove he's capable of taking care of _himself_.

But Abbacchio also wants to collapse against him. Wants to sink into his arms and envelope himself in that kind heart just for a _second_. To take what he hasn't earned. To get that moment of peace his heart aches for.

In the end he doesn't do anything.

He stands and watches Buccellati's feet until they carry him away. Abbacchio's vision is blurring, and he blinks repeatedly to try and clear it.

To the backdrop of clinking glass bottles being cleared away, he shuffles toward his bed.

He _has_ to get dressed. He can do that much, at least.

As he drops the towel and tugs on his underwear in its place, his mind runs a litany of swears and not much else – which fast forms into a litany of complaints aimed inward by the time he gets to putting on his pants.

Today is a _bad_ day, quickly getting _worse_.

Heat, unpleasant and searing against the previous cold, is rising through him from his unsteady gut to his pounding head. He can't _do_ this. His eyes are stinging. He's not _worth_ this. He trips over his own feet twice, trying to tug on his clothes.

Why can't he just _stop_?

Breath hitching in his throat, Abbacchio's fingers have restarted their trembling as he snatches up his shirt.

Memories assault him, so clear they're _sharp_. Why does he even need Moody Blues? He has no trouble reliving everything without help. His partner, his mistakes, that gun, the criminal, the bribe – all of it replays in pointed fragments at painful odds with the current sight of Buccellati _cleaning Abbacchio's room_.

Eyes sometimes attentive and sometimes blank, Abbacchio can't turn away. He sits heavy on his bed, barely present enough to tug on socks, watching Buccellati from beneath white eyelashes as his chest is burned hollow anew.

All of the bottles are stashed in a trash bag that's fast filling up. Dirty clothes are stacked atop an already overflowing laundry hamper. The towel at Abbacchio's feet is grabbed, and tamped beneath Buccellati's to soak up what's definitely half-dried vomit from that morning mixed with a healthy dose of spilled alcohol.

"Abbacchio."

At the sound of his name, Abbacchio winces, eyes dropping to his own knees. He can't stay here anymore, with Buccellati being so –

"When was the last time you changed your sheets?"

– It's too much for Abbacchio to take. He stands up, striding out of the room with purpose, more than he's moved with all day. This cowardly retreat is a shit move, he knows, but he has to _get out of there_, seeing as Buccellati _won't_.

He thinks he might hear something like a sigh behind him, and it shoves a pang through his heart. Even that isn't enough to interrupt his beeline for the couch, though. Sitting here at a minimum safe distance, he crosses his arms over his stomach, curling tight around himself.

The change of scenery doesn't help. Things are _barely_ less stifling out here.

And it's not like he can outrun his own head. Solace from his thoughts just isn't a thing he can feasibly find anymore. It keeps taking more and more alcohol to dull them during downtime, and even perilous missions spark zero satisfaction when completed these days. A sense of purpose from following orders is the most he can hope for, but even that is waning.

…What the hell is _wrong_ with him? It should be nothing. All of this is his own damn fault. He's dug his own grave time and again, paying the price for fucking up is something he's well acquainted with. The fact that it keeps _hurting_ like this isn't _fair_.

Not that he _deserves_ fair – and _god_ he feels like he's going to be sick again –

He presses a hand over his mouth until his stomach settles, folding tighter until his elbows rest high on his thighs. His cheeks are wet, eyes hot, and oh, that explains why his vision is so blurred. Crying _again_, huh?

That's…this is pathetic. He's forced to lift his hand away a little so breaths can hitch in and out of his mouth, his nose blocked and running no matter how much he sniffles.

Crying doesn't even count for a release of pressure. All it does anymore is magnify the ache.

A few times, Abbacchio dully notes Buccellati passing through behind him. The first time he catches the nauseating scent of cleaning supplies, and then the next he hears the rustle and clink of a garbage bag being set by the door…feels the slight breeze in the wake of Buccellati's assured steps….

But that's the most Abbacchio can really observe, senses fogging in and out through his tears. Tears that he's doing his best to stifle, because _come the fuck on_. They die down to slower, more manageable sobs eventually, until his eyes are barely leaking.

That, of course, is right about when Buccellati comes to sit careful next to him.

Abbacchio stares straight down, fighting the way his eyes try to shift left (left, _toward_ Buccellati). His hand is back to being pressed over his mouth, the other clenched hard around the opposite arm, and he _can't_ look at Buccellati. Even having him settle so close has Abbacchio tense.

"Abbacchio -"

"Don't say that," Abbacchio snaps, jaw set, hand yanked away from his mouth to cover his wet eyes instead. "Stop saying my name." Because hearing it from Buccellati's lips still gets his stomach tying itself in tight knots.

It's another shitty move, though, to yell at someone who just scrubbed your bedroom carpet. Especially when that someone has been impossibly gracious to you as long as you've had the fortune of knowing him, when you don't deserve even the tiniest scrap of grace.

Shame that shitty moves are Abbacchio's trademark.

"Is there –"

"Please just leave." There Abbacchio's throat goes again, thickening his words on the re-forming lump there. Dammit. He doesn't want to cry in front of Buccellati – not _again_. Not _anymore_.

To his horror, Buccellati stays put. (And Abbacchio hates that he feels _grateful_ for that.)

"I don't want to leave you alone like this," Buccellati says. His voice is soft and low, and his gaze is a tangibly warm weight on the side of Abbacchio's face.

But those words _hurt_. Abbacchio's mouth opens and closes twice before he can respond with a frustratingly thin, "You should."

"I won't."

Hand falling away from his face to mirror the other where it's clenched in his shirtsleeve, Abbacchio's eyes dart sideways against his will and catch a glimpse of Buccellati's knees. They're canted toward him; too close. He wrenches his head away, blinking stinging eyes at the couch cushion to his right instead. His mouth pulls down on a deep, trembling frown, fingers tightening in opposite sleeves where his arms are still folded firm over his stomach.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Buccellati asks, undeterred by Abbacchio's aloof act. "You should drink some water, at least."

Abbacchio doesn't respond. The thought of trying to keep even water down is a terrible one, restless all-over as Abbacchio is and as unsettled as his stomach remains. He _can't_ do this.

Despite his words, Buccellati doesn't get up to fetch anything during the weighty pause in conversation. Instead he lets the silence stretch between them, and Abbacchio tries and fails not to stew in it.

"You don't have to talk about it," Buccellati speaks up after a moment in his still-soft voice, "you don't have to do anything." The couch dips as he inches in closer, not enough to brush against Abbacchio, but enough that Abbacchio can feel the warmth he radiates. "I only want to be here for you."

Abbacchio's shoulders tense up on the words '_here for you_', and they stay that way long after Buccellati says his piece. Looking at him is still too taxing. He's _good_ in a way that's thoroughly blinding – Abbacchio was stupid to ever think he was worthy of his time. _Is_ stupid to be sitting here taking up so much of it still.

A hand settles warm in the center of Abbacchio's back. It doesn't move; it just stays there, seeping heat into Abbacchio's chill whether he wants it or not.

And it's got him _shaking_ again.

"I don't know why you're here," the words take Abbacchio by surprise as they tremble out of his mouth. They've been a backdrop in his head this whole time. He hadn't meant to actually speak them aloud.

Buccellati's hand glides up Abbacchio's spine until it reaches the top, where a gentle thumb rubs against his neck.

"I care about you, Leone."

Abbacchio deflates. His insides melt together in a disgusting mess of longing and guilt and _hatred_ turned_ inward _versus _affection_ that's trying to get _out_ – and fuck, he's _crying_ again. Hot tears drip down his face no matter how he tries to wipe them away with his sleeve, hands shaking.

That's the first time Buccellati's used his given name. It makes Abbacchio's stomach hurt and his chest feel all wonky and he loathes how much he wants to hear it again.

Lips an unsteady line on his face, Abbacchio wants to tell Buccellati not to care about him. _Still_ wants to scream at him to _get out_. But at the same time, he _also_ still wants to sink into Buccellati's arms and forget everything that's ever hurt him. (Even himself. Especially himself.)

Because he's _worth_ something, here, in the job that Buccellati's given him. He has a purpose.

It's just too bad that it comes with the cost of people relying on him, more often than not. Teammates – _partners_ – that will be put at risk if Abbacchio makes another fatal mistake like before.

Ruining his own life thanks to his own shortcomings is one thing – what scares him most is –

"You don't understand what I did," he mutters, almost a whisper, words catching in his throat. Because _what he did_ spans beyond even the life lost and the career ruined. _What he did_ dips its fingers into every facet of him, stretches its influence through every action he takes and defaults all efforts to ruin.

_What he did_ leaves him rotted and useless.

Buccellati, apparently, is at his limit. He scoots in ever closer, his knees bumping Abbacchio's and his other hand reaching out to touch along with the first one. The hand at his back brushes Abbacchio's hair away from his face while the other presses over his crossed forearms, squeezing.

"Yes I do," Buccellati says, "and it was a mistake, Leone. Everyone makes those. They don't make you a bad person – you're _not_ a bad person."

Those words are like a lance through Abbacchio's chest. Buccellati knows his story, but he still – how can he _say_ that, when it's obvious to anyone looking that: "I am."

A careful hand cups Abbacchio's jaw, and Buccellati lets it rest there, not applying any pressure or urging him to turn. "Please look at me," he murmurs, fingers stroking over Abbacchio's cheek so lightly it almost tickles.

It's only fair, Abbacchio thinks. Having to drag his gaze to lock with Buccellati's might as well count as his own personal punishment for himself what with how guilty it makes him feel. It's the _least_ he can do.

So he turns his head – Buccellati's hand staying put and keeping its comforting position as he does – and raises sore, tired eyes.

Buccellati's are impossibly blue as usual. They're the kind that Abbacchio would willingly jump into and drown in any day. And right now he's shocked to see that they don't hold a hint of frustration. No malice, no annoyance, either…they're just…they're_…sad_. Tender, even.

That other hand comes up to join the first in cupping Abbacchio's face, thumbs rubbing his wet cheeks. "You'll be all right," Buccellati says.

"I _won't_," Abbacchio insists. Contrary to his prediction, though, both the eye contact and the words are _soothing_ his hurts, rather than aggravating them. The stiff ache inside of him is easing, if only a tiny bit but he _doesn't fucking deserve this_. "I'm not – I'm –"

That's all he can force out, more tears stifling the rest of his words. As they fall, they're wiped away by Buccellati's careful, dutiful fingers.

By all accounts, Abbacchio should pull away from this; should sulk back to his own devices, curl up on his own and get out of here before he ruins this, too.

But it feels _nice_.

Blue eyes show nothing but steadfast sincerity as Buccellati tells him, again, "You'll be all right."

And Abbacchio's tears pick up the pace, but Buccellati only carries on brushing them away as they come with as much tenderness as ever. Abbacchio wants to argue more than anything, but his energy is leaking as fast as his tears, each hitched breath wearing him down that much more.

"Your past won't keep you down."

That's a definite _lie_, but it's so sweet of Buccellati to say that Abbacchio wants to _believe_ it. His eyes are so _honest_. The more Abbacchio cries the harder it is to look at them – at Buccellati in general.

When he tries to duck away, Buccellati's hands leave his face but don't stay away. One of them moves to rub across his back, while the other arm wraps firm around his front. Buccellati uses this hold to pull Abbacchio in close. Too wrung-out to resist, Abbacchio all but falls against him. He's _warm_ and _safe_ and _solid_, and Abbacchio _wants_ that – but he doesn't –

Soft lips press careful to his forehead, and Abbacchio chokes on a sob, shoving his sleeve over his own mouth. His free hand clings to Buccellati's shirt, helpless.

"I'm here, Leone," the promise is mumbled into Abbacchio's skin, sincere words sinking in and soothing their way to his heart, "whenever you need."

You'd think, after crying pretty much all morning, that Abbacchio would be able to _stop_ by now. But he _can't_. Doesn't even seem to be slowing down, regardless of his best efforts or Buccellati's gentle ministrations. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, "I don't…."

A sympathetic noise comes from Buccellati, and his mouth meets Abbacchio's forehead again. "It's all right. I've got you." Both hands rub over Abbacchio's back, pushing more warmth into his core, pleasant unlike the burning from earlier.

So Abbacchio lets go.

He's too tired to fight it anymore, crying in earnest into Buccellati's chest, ruining his suit and staining his skin as he shakes apart completely – but all Buccellati does is hold him, dropping soothing murmurs into Abbacchio's hair as he strokes through it with gentle fingers.

In his arms, Abbacchio thinks that _maybe_ he can let himself have something he doesn't deserve.

Just this once. Just for a little while.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading.


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